


Calm Before the Storm

by CSIGurlie07



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Child Abduction, F/F, Gen, Ransom, but it exists in an established supercorp verse, cw: claustrophobia, cw: nyctophobia, rated T for offscreen violence/death, so it's tagged, sue me, the supercorp is minor in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 17:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16372124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CSIGurlie07/pseuds/CSIGurlie07
Summary: At the age of seven, Lena was abducted and held for ransom. Now, in the wake of a recent attack on L-Corp, a surprise delivery sends a message that rattles Lena to the core. [an interlude for the Making Waves series]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel/interlude to Making Waves, to ease myself back into the series as I commence work on the promised continuation.

Growing up, the threat of abduction was very real. Her father always warned her:

_Be aware of your surroundings._

One day, Lena’s favorite teacher offers to wait with her for the towncar after school one day. Lena enthusiastically obliges, eager to spend more time with one of the few teachers who isn’t pestered by her constant questions in class, who lets her talk to her heart’s content.

Lena gushes about molecular cohesion-- repeating Lex’s recent explanation almost verbatim-- until the town car arrives. She only pauses when she notices that the license plate on the car is different than the one that picked her up from home that morning. Usually, they match.

In fact, she’s never seen this plate number before.

But her teacher leads her towards it while asking about surface tension, and Lena thinks maybe Miss Davenport recognizes the driver. But as they near, he doesn't get out to meet them like he usually does.

Lena starts to drag her feet, dread pooling in her stomach. Miss Davenport’s hand tightens, all but dragging her now. Danger lodges itself in her throat, and Lena remembers her father’s words.

_Aim low, hit hard, run fast._

Just as they near the car, Lena drops her backpack and elbows her teacher in the abdomen before stomping hard on her foot. Miss Davenport curses, and releases her, and that's all Lena needs. She turns to run, but the car door opens and a heavy arm catches her around the waist and hauls her inside, legs kicking and flailing ineffectually. Her teacher climbs in after them, backpack in hand.

Lena kicks at her when her head is in range-- her shoe catches her in the mouth with a satisfying crunch.

The dark curse and murderous glare that burns at her from behind a bloody snarl looks nothing like her teacher. It chills Lena, makes her freeze for precious seconds. Then Miss Davenport reels back and slaps Lena across the cheek with stunning force.

When Lena's vision clears the man who snatched her has his arms wrapped tight around her, pinning her arms against the front of her chest while one legs press her feet to the seat under his thighs.

 _"Let go!"_ Lena bellows at the top of her lungs. The car is in motion now, rapidly passing beyond the circle of familiarity that surrounds her school. "Let me go! Let me go, let me go, _let me go!!"_

She squirms and twists with all of her might, but she is small and the man is strong. She thrashes her head, searching for a nose, a cheek, anything she can hit with enough force to make him loosen his grip.

 _Be loud_ , her father’s voice reminds her.

Lena screams, as loud and ear splitting as her 7 year old throat can muster. The man holding her tries to shove her wrists into one hand so he can cover her mouth, and she twists one hand free and reaches blindly up behind her to claw sharp fingernails at his eyes.

She catches something soft that tears, spilling blood across her fingertips. For the briefest of moments, his grip loosens and Lena wastes no time. She lunges for the passenger door.

Lena yanks on the handle, but nothing happens.

She pulls again, but there’s no catch, no release, and then hands haul her back. Something wide and rough pushes into her mouth, silencing her shouts as she squirms. Plastic zip ties tightly cinch her wrists together in front of her, and another binds her ankles uncomfortably tight.

"Get the brat in the bag, now," a voice growls from somewhere behind her. In a blur of movement, Lena is shoved into a large duffel bag that smells of mildew and sweat. The furious, bloody glare of Miss Davenport is the last thing Lena sees before the zipper closes over her head.


	2. Chapter 2

_ If you cannot get away-- obey. Stay quiet, do as they say.  _

_ Stay alive, and I will come for you. _

They seem to drive for hours. Despite trying to count and memorize the turns they make, Lena dozes off in the darkness of the stifling duffel bag. She rouses sometime later when the engine cuts off and the bag pinches tightly around her as someone hefts it over their shoulder. 

Lena whimpers when polyester presses suffocatingly against her cheek, squashing her nose and pinning her limbs in place. She strains to hear something, anything to discern their location, but her ears fill only with the pounding of her heart and the desperate hiss of air through her nose. 

She memorizes the path, tries to envision the house or building they enter. Too many turns to be an open warehouse, and from the bumps she gets on either side she deduces that the path is far narrower than a standard building. That’s all Lena gets before she’s swung off her courier’s shoulder and dumped in a box-- the lid slams shut overhead, bag and all.

In the oppressive darkness, Lena blindly feels for the zipper and carefully peels it open. She sucks in a lungful of marginally fresher air, whining as she scrabbles to find the knot in the cloth between her teeth. She doesn’t find it, and can’t reach it with her hands bound so tightly.

She can’t breathe. Worming her way out of the bag does little to relieve the claustrophobic confines of Lena’s imprisonment. The box isn’t tall enough for her sit up, or long enough for her to extend her legs. She presses on the lid, but refrains from pounding like she desperately wants to. She’s trapped. Her best chances of survival now lie in waiting, quietly.

_ Stay alive, and I will come for you. _

Lena curls on her side, back pressed against one wall, bound hands braced against the other. 

With a deep breath through her nose, she settles in, and waits.

* * *

Exhaustion steals over Lena as soon as the adrenaline fades. The next thing she knows, the lid is being torn open again, flooding her prison with dim, but blinding light. With her father’s voice in her ears, Lena keeps her eyes down, counting the blue flowers printed on the inside of the box. 

Hands reach down and roughly loosen the knotted dish towel still lodged between her teeth. Half a peanut butter sandwich drops in front of her nose, and then the lid slams shut again, sealing her in darkness. She doesn’t touch it. Her stomach twists in knots, and her mouth is dry with thirst.

But the lid doesn’t open again, and hours seem to pass. The air presses hot and thick around her, and eventually hunger and her father’s voice reminding her the perils of weakness urges her to eat the now-goopy sandwich. She dozes again, in fits and starts as her body tries to rest and stay alert simultaneously.

Every time, her eyes open to nothing but darkness.

Lena counts sandwiches instead of minutes. The next one comes with a juice box, too sweet and too little to slake her thirst, but just enough to soften the peanut butter that sticks cloyingly in her throat. The next one comes as dry as the first, and is preceded by a newspaper being thrust in her hands, and a small camcorder shoved in her face.

“Your daughter is alive, August 23rd, 2000. Send 1 million dollars to the bank account accompanying this message if you want to keep her that way.”

The recording light switches off, and then the newspaper is torn away and Lena’s forced back down again.

“Wait, please!” Her cry pauses the sharp descent of the lid.

“What?” 

“May I please use the bathroom?”

Whether it’s the politeness of her tone or the quiver in her voice, the lid creaks back open. The man who’d held the video camera clips the ziptie binding her ankles, then throws a blanket over her head before hoisting her over his shoulder. Two lefts and one right turn later, they deposit her in a small bathroom, and tell her to be quick. 

She has very little to do, but Lena takes as long as she dares, savoring the cool air filling her lungs and coating her sweaty cheeks. She struggles to focus. The bathroom is small, with fake wood paneling that’s dusty and smudged. There’s no water in the toilet, but it flushes still, and the water out of the tap is intermittent and ice cold. 

She’s on a boat. 

A yacht, either wintered or abandoned. There’s no motion under her feet, no undulating waves. There aren’t any windows, and when the bathroom door slams open less than five minutes after she enters, the blanket goes back over her head, blinding her. They don’t bother binding her legs again when they dump her back in the box and lock the lid shut. 

From the hunger that builds between sandwiches, Lena estimates she gets one per day. Every other sandwich comes with a juicebox, and a bathroom break. Every third comes with a newspaper, and another ransom message. 

In the darkness, Lena wonders how her father managed to stay the deadline. Then, she replays the script in her mind, and realizes her captor never gave one.

_ Amateurs. _

It could play to her advantage, but it could also make them more volatile. More violent, if things didn’t go their way. All Lena can do now is sit and wait and think.

Alone in the dark, Lena waits.

The heat inside the box grows stifling, and the scent of peanut butter pervades every inch of the constricting box. It clings to her pores, filling her nose and coating her tongue. Lena’s hair sticks to the sweat on her neck, and by the fifth sandwich, a constant nausea crawls against the back of her throat.

To fight the urge to vomit, Lena thinks of her father, and the warm hugs he gives every night before bed. She thinks of Lex, with his proud smile across the chess board. She tries not to think of her mother. When she does, Lena can only think that all of this will only fuel Lillian’s dislike of her-- now Lillian has a million more reasons not to want her. 

Maybe, this will be what convinces her father to send Lena back.

When the tears start, they don’t stop.


	3. Chapter 3

On the eighth day, it’s Miss Davenport who lets Lena out for her bathroom break. The blanket goes over Lena’s head like normal, but her teacher lacks the strength to throw Lena over her shoulder like the others. Instead, she pulls on Lena’s bound hands and drags her towards the bathroom. 

Right side up and on her own two feet, Lena studies the narrow field of vision afforded by the loose blanket. The flat carpet confirms her theory of a yacht. It’s clearly seen better days, stained and littered with debris, but the style is unmistakable. Her eyes catch on paper towels, a flyer, scraps of newspaper and tarps. 

When Miss Davenport shoves her into the bathroom, Lena whirls to face her before the door slams shut. 

"Wait!" 

Miss Davenport glares at her from over a fat lip. 

"I'm sorry I kicked you," Lena says, struggling to piece words together with a voice that hasn't been used in days. Miss Davenport's glare eases.

"I didn't mean to. I was scared." Her lip trembles of its own accord, but Lena embraces it when her teacher softens even further. "I'm sorry."

“Just keep it quick,” Miss Davenport says, before gently closing the door between them.

On the way back, Lena stumbles on a piece of timber that catches the trailing edge of the blanket. Miss Davenport catches her before she can fall. 

“Sorry,” Lena mumbles.

A hand rests on the top her head, gentle through the blanket. “It’s all right,” Miss Davenport says. “Come on. Let’s get back to the room and we can take that blanket off.”

Lena offers no resistance when Miss Davenport seeks her elbow through the folds of the blanket and helps guide her back to the trunk. This time, the blanket comes off before she’s forced inside, and only then does Lena balk, recoiling from the box and the darkness that awaits.

Miss Davenport’s hand tightens on her, but softens when she sees the tears in Lena’s eyes.

“Please, don’t make me go back in there,” Lena begs. “I won’t try to run away, I promise!”

Lena swipes her forearm under her nose, smearing grime and snot across one cheek as tears pool in her eyes and spill over. 

Miss Davenport cups Lena’s cheeks. “Shhh, it’s okay sweetheart.”

“Can I stay here with you, just for a little while? Please? I promise I’ll be good...”

“How about… we clean you up a little bit first? You can eat, stretch a little bit. But then you have to climb back in when we’re done, okay?”

Lena nods vigorously, relief washing over her. Any respite is enough. “Okay. Okay, I’ll be good.”

To her surprise, Miss Davenport clips the tie that’s bound her wrists since the day she was pulled into the car. Lena almost starts wailing again at the pain of raw, festering skin being exposed to the stale air of the boat’s hold. But she swallows her tears, and munches quietly on her sandwich as Miss Davenport cleans her wrists and cheeks with moist towelettes, and combs Lena’s hair with her fingers.

Lena suffers the soft caresses without a sound of complaint. Dim as it is, the light in the room makes her eyes ache. It takes all of her willpower to pry them open to surreptitiously study the room around her. 

The old, beaten steamer trunk that’s been her home for the past week looks nondescript in the cluttered room, indistinguishable from the broken furniture and detritus that’s collected in the corners of the room. Again, she sees the pale blue lining of the inner walls, and the small navy flowers marching in narrow rows from seam to seam. Soon, she’ll be back inside, scrunched so tight she can’t breathe--

She chokes on her mouthful of peanut butter, throat constricting in fear.

“Careful,” Miss Davenport warns her. “Here, honey.”

Lena numbly accepts the juicebox her teacher hands her. It’s her second one of the day. She hesitates-- will she be punished if she takes it? Dehydration overcomes her fear. Lena greedily gulps the juice, finishing it in barely more than a sip.

It’s not nearly enough, but she thanks Miss Davenport regardless. “Thank you,” she says softly. Miss Davenport reclaims the empty box, setting it aside. Lena tracks the movement, and a flash of color catches her eye. 

A 8.5x11” flyer advertising a steep discount for renting boat slips at the Southport Marina. It’s expired, torn and grungy, but Lena captures every detail in an instant.

Their moment of peace shatters when the door bursts open, and Lena freezes at the rage that burns in the camera man’s eyes when he spots her sitting at Miss Davenport’s feet. 

“What the hell are you thinking?!” he bellows.

“Chad, wait, don’t--!” Miss Davenport’s pleas go unheard as Chad shoves her out of the way.

Lena scuttles away, but Chad catches and pins her without mercy. He leans all his weight on her until he closes a fresh tie around her wrists and pulls it tighter than before. 

“Please,” Lena begs, sobbing. “Please it hurts! Don’t--! No!”

Chad drags Lena to the box and dumps her inside, driving the breath from her lungs. Still, she fights, reaching for the edge of the trunk.

“Please, no! I’ll be good, I’ll be good! Please, _don’t--!”_

The heavy lid slams shut, directly onto Lena’s left hand. 

Lena shrieks, sharp and loud as pain swallows her hand and shoots up her arm. The lid lifts just long enough for Chad to rip her hand from side and fling it fully inside. Lena cradles her bound hands to her chest and wails. Agony throbs with every breath, stealing her senses as the dishtowel-- all but forgotten since the first day-- is tied across her open mouth to muffle her screams, and her ankles are zipped together for good measure.

Then the lid shuts a second time, locking her in familiar darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

She can’t close her hand.

At least one bone is broken, but Lena can’t tell how many. The lid broke skin when it fell: the coppery scent of blood mingles with the ever-present cloy of peanut butter-- a scent that fades when the sandwiches stop coming. Lena clamps her hand against the open wound and fights the sickening churn of nausea and hunger that gnaws at her belly. 

In the dark, she accepts that she can’t afford to wait. 

No matter what her father promised, he hasn’t found her yet. He may never find her. Not without help.

The next time the trunk opens, Chad holds the newspaper himself. “Keep your fucking hands out of sight or I’ll cut them off.”

Lena knows she has, at most, twenty seconds before the recording ends. As soon as the recording light blinks on, she starts to blink.

Chad doesn’t notice. Her nose is running and her lips tremble-- he assumes she’s trying not to cry. He doesn’t know morse code.

“This is our last message,” Chad finishes, deviating from his usual script. “The money, or you’ll be begging to know where the body is.”

The camera shuts off, and rough hands shove Lena back into her box. One last sandwich lands next to her before the trunk closes. Lena lays unmoving, as her pounding heart slows to normal.

Though he doesn’t know it, Chad gave her time for three extra letters.

It’s a long shot. She’s guessing about the flyer, and her father may not notice her secret message any more than Chad did. Even if he does, she can only pray that he’ll recognize it for what it is.

_ S-P-T-M-A-R-I-N-A _

* * *

Time stretches in the dark. Pain and exhaustion leave Lena too groggy to attempt marking time. She stretches the sandwich to last as long as it can… hunger claws at her ribs, but the sting of dry lips warns it’s not her greatest concern. 

Without her usual breaks in the bathroom, the heat grows unbearable. 

Lena’s eyes grow heavy, but she doesn’t dare sleep. She pinches herself, squeezes her broken hand, to keep herself awake. 

Don’t fall asleep.

Don’t fall asleep.

_ Don’t… fall… asleep… _

Lena blinks blearily when something pops outside her prison. Before she can wonder if she imagined it, the sound comes again, twice in rapid succession. Gunfire.

Her world rocks when the lock is struck from the outside of the trunk, and the lid lifts a second later. Lena flinches against the beams of flashlights that strobe across her vision, blinding after so long in the dark. She shields her eyes with bloody hands, curling tightly against the sudden exposure.

“Lena!”

A familiar voice cuts through the cotton that seems to fill her ears.  _ Daddy… _

Her cry is swallowed by the damp gag still lodged between her teeth. This time, the hands that pull from the box are gentle with care, cradling her until her father’s shoulder presses against her cheek. She starts to sob when the zipties around her hands and feet are both cut, and fingers tug the dishtowel from her mouth.

Her chest heaves, but her body is too dehydrated for tears to come. “D-Daddy!”

“I’m here,” her father murmurs. He hugs her close, cradling her head with a single broad hand. He feels solid around her-- a stone wall between her and the rest of the world. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

Lena clutches at the fabric of his shirt with her good hand when he lifts her into his arms. He presses her head to his chest as they start to move through the boat. He tries to keep her from seeing, but over the edge of his shoulder Lena catches a glimpse of Miss Davenport lying on the ground, staring sightlessly at the ceiling with one eye. The other is a mess of blood and bone. 

Only then does Lena squeeze her eyes shut.

She was right about the yacht being abandoned. The pier it’s moored to is dark and quiet, and lined with two or three other boats in even worse condition. One lists to one side, all but sunk. There’s no flashing lights on the shore as they descend the gangplank, no sirens or police.

Just her and father and a small team of men trailing silently behind, clad all in black.

“Come on,” her father murmurs in her ear. “Let’s go home.”


	5. Chapter 5

Kara responds to the unexpected flowers in Lena’s office with playful curiosity. “Wow. Those investor guys must have really liked your pitch. Should I be worried that one of them is going to try and sweep you off your feet?”

The arrangement is as grand as any Kara’s ever seen-- dozens of white flowers spilling out of a heavy steamer trunk. She spots roses and lilies and countless more she doesn’t recognize. The scents comingle and mix into a rather pungent odor, but it is visually stunning.

“I bet it was Pinstripes,” she jokes, stepping towards the flowers to look for a card. “He seemed the type--”

Lena’s hand latches around her wrist, halting Kara in her tracks. “Don’t touch it.”

“Lena?”

Her girlfriend is rigid beside her, eyes glassy in a sudden daze. “Lena!”

Lena finally blinks, and shudders as she shakes off whatever pall had frozen her in place. In the next moment, she resumes control of the situation by pulling Kara out of the room and shutting the door firmly behind her. 

She shakes loose of Kara's hand as she closes the distance to Jess' desk, issuing orders in a low, calm voice. 

"Please notify Agent Danvers with the FBI that we’ve received a suspicious delivery. I have reason to believe it was sent by my brother.”

* * *

The DEO finds nothing in the trunk but flowers. Kara’s relieved, but Lena can’t shake the unease crawling across her skin. It drives her out of the office early for the first time in months, and keeps her quiet through dinner. 

It keeps her from sleeping, even with Kara’s arms warm and gentle around her.

She can’t breathe.

Lena slips out of bed, escaping the oppressive heat that comes from having Supergirl as a bed partner. She only intends to turn down the thermostat and wait for the chill to kick in, but in the time it takes for the air to cool Lena finds herself ensconced in her window seat, watching raindrops course lazily down the glass.

Kara finds her there, hours later. 

“I thought it was your other hand giving you trouble.”

Lena blinks, staring down at where her right hand has been massaging her left. Separating them sharply, Lena curls her hands into the blanket Kara drapes around her shoulders. 

“No,” is the only answer she gives. While regaining feeling after her surgery hasn’t been a picnic, it’s not the injury haunting her tonight.

Settling on the opposite corner of the bench, Kara regards her solemnly. “I’ve never seen you this rattled. Especially over a false alarm.”

“It wasn’t a false alarm,” Lena tells her. “It was him.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, but flowers aren’t usually his preferred method of communication…”

Lena swallows thickly. “Not the flowers. The trunk they came in.”

Blue eyes darken in the shadows. “I don’t understand.” Kara’s hands twitch, as though to reach for her, but instead she curls up herself, wrapping her arms around her knees to mirror Lena’s own posture. “But I want to.”

Panic lifts in Lena’s throat. She swallows it down, and struggles to find the voice to speak. “I was used for ransom, once.”

She pauses, waiting for Kara’s reaction. Hoping for it even, because it would give her a reason to stop, to change the subject. It doesn’t come. Kara doesn’t even seem to breathe. 

“I spent twelve days in a trunk exactly like the one we found in my office.”

Right down to the rows of little blue flowers marching across a sea of blue, from one seam to the other.

“I had nightmares, after. Every night, I bolted out of bed and ran to Lex. Always Lex. He let me sleep in his bed, and left the light on so that if I woke up, I would see him and know that I was safe.”

Her recovery is a blur in her memory, but those nights stand out vividly. Even now, she can hear Lex’s voice in her ear, telling her stories of the universe. She remembers the tremble in her voice as she recounted her nightmares, tearfully confessing the press of darkness that sat so heavily on her chest-- Chad’s weight pressing her into the ground, squeezing her wrists together-- Miss Davenport’s gaping hole of an eye.

She remembers the scrape and slide of her cast against the doorknob the night she ran to her door, and found it wouldn’t open.

"Mother was furious. She told Lex to send me back to my own room the next time it happened, but he didn’t. When she started locking our doors at night, he climbed the trellis between our windows. He stayed with me every night until he went to boarding school that summer. It was the first time I’d ever seen him disobey her."

That first week without Lex had nearly destroyed her. But without Lex as a crutch, Lena started overcoming her own nightmares. Lillian had been right after all. 

“I looked into your history before we met,” Kara said quietly. “There was never any mention of a kidnapping. Why did your parents hide it?”

“My father handled things himself. Discretion is a Luthor’s greatest virtue, after all.”

That, and impeccable aim.

"I came to terms with Lex’s actions a long time ago. But it’s still… I can’t reconcile the man who would send me that damn trunk with the boy who picked thorns out of his palms every night."

She’d told him all about that box, those nights he’d spent in her room. She’d shown him how she’d lain curled on her side, unable to sit up or stretch out. She’d told him of the little blue flowers she’d seen only in glimpses, and imagined she could see them just to trick herself into ignoring the dark. 

“He’s the only one I told about the trunk. The only one.”

Only Kara finally reaches for her does Lena realize tears are streaming from her eyes. She right hand has once more gravitated towards her left, and the near invisible scar that traces a line of silver across the back of it. 

Taking a shuddering breath, Lena interlaces her fingers with Kara’s, and takes deep, calming breaths.

“You think it’s a message?” Kara asks, her voice low and serious. Lena nods. “What does it mean?”

Lena turns her gaze back to the window, and the rain beyond. 

"A storm is coming."


End file.
